


Artau

by travellinghopefully



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, Eventual Smut, F/M, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-25 10:51:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4957513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, there was a prompt in July....I don't even remember if it was for me, or entirely what it was about.....</p>
<p>Rated for language and later smut - only a slight amount of thought about smut in chapter 1</p>
<p>This is utterly AU - but I hope with plenty of character elements we have come to know and love</p>
<p>So, here you have Clara at Art School,  and at least for chapter 1, the Doctor is a model....</p>
<p>the chapters are, premise, conflict, resolution</p>
<p>it took me all week for this first chapter - or, 3 months, if you are being picky.... so, although I have the full outline of the remaining chapters, goodness knows when they will turn up</p>
<p>and the title - sorry - that's the file name, and I can't think of anything witty at the moment (suggestions welcome)</p>
<p>this is a little longer than my pieces so far, and, there is a plot - shocked - I was!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Premise

The man was clearly deeply uncomfortable, but infinitely more interesting than any of the models they had worked with so far. All taut skin, air brushed tans, manicured hair, tweezed, plucked, waxed and spa treated into a homogenised bland mass. Putting aside the obvious discomfort, which also marked him out from the others who exuded supreme self confidence, strutting around naked during the breaks, indifferent to convention. So, ignoring that, and the fact he was at least 30/40 years older than anyone else they had worked with. He had lines, sags, dips, hollows, he looked lived in, rather than factory pressed from plastic. Gaunt, and depending on the light – haggard, extraordinary bone structure, and the most vivid eyes. 

He created a buzz in the room, the most laid back, indifferent, seen it all, done it all, screen printed the t-shirt and sold it on etsy student, worked through sheet after sheet of paper. The warm up pose focused them all, the quick poses electrified them. He was all veins and sinews and lines and shadows. Pencil, charcoal, paint, pastels, anything – no one spoke (well the class was mostly silent, but there was always some chat) – everyone begged for the breaks to be shorter, the day longer.   
Except for them, the posh girls, the ones who’d only ever seen the cocks on their ponies, or their baby brothers, or at a real push, their teen, trust fund boyfriends. They were indifferent, giggling, smirking, nudging each other and pointing, barely lifting anything to the paper in front of them. But just quietly enough that it was never enough for the tutor to intervene. 

University instead of finishing school, art as an excuse for trolling for a husband. How did they get their places? So what if they had the grades, they didn’t deserve the places, they didn’t love art, they didn’t bleed art, they didn’t agonise over their grades, they didn’t juggle two jobs during the term and every possible thing in the holidays to try and meet the fees, rent, materials and god forbid they should have to think about whether they could afford to eat. (And even in her own head Clara knew she was ranting, but it was so fucking unfair, now it sounded as if she was eight years old again and couldn’t have the bike she wanted – get a grip Oswald.) Clara burned with not shame, but anger, thinking of the jobs she’d done, was doing, would do, to keep getting to do this. And the harpies mocked it all, it incensed her. To put the cherry on top, at least two of them were effortlessly good, everything as flawless as their looks. Clara refused to acknowledge the frustration she felt when she looked at one of them, honey blonde hair, skin to match, breasts so perfect that she absolutely did not fantasise about them, no, it really didn’t help that one of them was the most beautiful woman Clara had ever seen. And no, she wasn’t jealous of their infinitely long legs, limitless wealth, skiing holidays – oh who was she kidding – on days like today, she wanted to be them.

Clara did not blush as she stared, this was art, this was not their first life model and certainly not the first man. But to be honest, it was, all the others were boys, and Clara realised she hadn’t had that many opportunities to stare at men, and he was definitely not a boy. As hard and as fast as she worked, staring was a prerequisite of what she was doing, ok, to quote the tutor, they were “studying, not staring”, the colours of skin, the textures, the shadows, the highlights, the composition of muscle, sinew, skin, (Clara shuddered at the memory of the day they spent with the medical students). 

Clara always admired Rigsy’s work, half pure anatomical rigour, something that wouldn’t be out of place in a copy of Gray’s Anatomy, the rest fantasy. One day pure Picasso, another Bacon, the last week he had been channelling Leonardo. She knew his real love was street art, graffiti especially, the thrill of the ephemeral, the challenge, the illegality, but he was truly astonishing at anything he did. 

Between staring at the model and looking at what Rigsy was dong, Clara hadn’t touched her own paper for some moments – the tutor was standing at her shoulder, asking her something, commenting on something, looking at her already discarded work, her notebook. She stammered enough to get him to move on. She shared a look with Rigsy, he mimed a drink and Clara nodded, it would be good to have a night off, not work on anything, just have fun. 

And then, she resumed staring, she was sure the models eyes changed colour as the light moved round the studio during the day, she would have staked at least a tenner that they were definitely grey, and then certainly green and then a wondrous blue. But they looked tired too, ringed with red, dry and possibly sore, the hint of bags, definite stubble. Had he slept badly? Did he have a demanding job? She wondered how his skin would feel under her fingers, warm and dry, the rasp of stubble, soft elsewhere...the tutor said they should take their feelings into consideration when drawing, so this wasn’t strictly daydreaming. 

She never normally connected with any of their subjects, she felt disgust, antipathy, even revulsion for the models they’d worked with so far, but she never connected. Him, he was different. Looking at his hands, one resting on his thigh the other dangling by his side, she contemplated how fine his fingers were, how delicate the bones in his wrist. Seeing a model with body hair made a refreshing change, not that he was hairy, nothing obscured his form, but it made him more real. She contemplated the light dusting of hair on his chest, the thicker line trailing down his stomach to between his legs, and she didn’t consciously lick her lips. Whilst she drew, she lost herself in an idle reverie, largely focused on imaging him writhing underneath her. Well, she’d connected with this model! She wouldn’t be adding these thoughts in her submission to her tutor. She would steal inspiration from Rigsy and witter on about Leonardo and something or other – she didn’t need to think about that now. 

The tutor liked them to imagine a back story for their model, a world for them to inhabit, he didn’t want their work to be sterile, abstract, unconnected – and being pushed to look at their work from more than one perspective was what made this one of Clara’s favourite classes. Most weeks though, they knew the model’s whole life story before the end of the first break, and it was always a variation on a theme – waitress/waiter/model, but only until they made it, ‘til they were spotted, ‘til they realised being an extra in Emmerdale would be as good as it got. Clara despised her bitchyness, her snobbishness, her compulsion to judge – that really wasn’t who she was. She was so bored of lying, pretending a life, a story that was never going to exist, that was never going to be possible. Last week she’d snapped and written exactly what she thought and received a one word critique, “interesting”. Her tutorial cancelled, the cause? she had no fucking idea, it made her furious. She wanted to discuss her thoughts not just what she expressed on paper and she really wanted to know what he’d thought before this week.

She looked again at the model’s hands, there were traces of paint, an artist then? (A painter and decorator?) Why modelling? Did he need the money? Was this a favour to someone, to another model had dropped out? He hadn’t stayed with them during the break, wrapping a thread bare dressing gown round himself and stalking off. She expected to glance outside and see him huddled with the smokers – but no, he wasn’t there either.

Just stopping long enough to get a polystyrene cup (she’d forgotten her mug again) of the brown liquid that could be coffee but might possibly be gravy, Clara looked back through what she’d produced so far trying to decide on what she really wanted to produce during the long pose. They didn’t have to submit everything for the final grade, so, she needed to decide whether she wanted to continue producing a sequence of studies, or if she really wanted to do a portrait, and then full length, head and shoulders, torso....That was it, his hands, his eyes, those were the things she saw in her work so far, those were the images seared into her brain.   
She didn’t notice him standing behind her, she didn’t know how long he had been there, what he’d been looking at, why – she only noticed as he brushed past her, moving to look at Rigsy’s work. Definitely an artist then. 

The others started to return and he moved back to resume his pose, only discarding his robe when everyone was in place. The tutor stalking over to him to remove the mug of coffee from his hand. There was a quiet argument, the tutor unexpectedly relenting. The mug figured in the next five of Clara’s sketches, the position of his fingers on the handle, wrapped round the mug drawing warmth from it? She thought more about the tone of his skin, the play of colours, the hints of blue, palest green, shadows hinting at purples (not a sun worshipper this one). Then she realised she was staring at his mouth, his lips on the edge of the mug, the movement of his throat as he swallowed, his tongue flicking over his lips, capturing the last drop of coffee (she presumed coffee). She moved back to drawing his eyes and adding a sequence of dabs of colour at the side of her sheet, giving herself a possible colour palette, no more than diy paint chips at this point, but a chance to test rightness and wrongness. As she did this she found herself lost in thoughts of what his hands and mouth would be like on her, would he be confident? She presumed experience. Looking at him, she made the decision he wouldn’t be selfish. Would he let her be in control though? Oh now, really, this was a great counterpoint to her thoughts of Catherine earlier, but really her thoughts were straying just a little too far. Thinking that, she allowed her gaze to wander down his torso again, her position in the room and his pose, not quite allowing her the perfect view. Telling herself that she wasn’t a shallow, empty headed school girl, she tried to focus. 

Berating herself she realised she had entirely ignored his feet and then had to stop herself from giggling - maybe that was what had set the girls off earlier (and there she’d been, judging them), he was wearing boots – not laced up, and she could see his socks, the pattern not quite discernible, but definitely not plain. No model before had kept their boots on, he had obviously stripped and put them back on...why? In the time remaining ‘til lunch she remedied her lack of attention and captured them in as much detail as she could – “Nude with boots” – not catchy, but original.

As they broke to eat, drink, smoke, gossip, she lingered, trying again to decide if she really wanted to do hands and eyes, or something grander. She hoped to catch her tutor, maybe even a word with the model, but again he was gone and the tutor was with the girls, somehow captivated by something they felt compelled to share. She was doing it again, she shook her head at herself. She was not fucking jealous! She didn’t think of them eating at the pub, well, not eating, they weren’t the sort of girls who ate – a glass of something with the fewest calories and one cigarette (they didn’t really smoke), sheltering under something somewhere, giggling breathlessly at some brainless Greek god wannabe. Oh for fuck’s sake, get a grip Clara. 

A night out with Rigsy would be the perfect antidote, help her shake this mood. As if on cue, he appeared at her side. Without asking, he picked up everything she’d been working on and started flicking through, giving a running commentary as he did so. She tried to pretend that it didn’t matter what he said, they both knew that it did. Clara didn’t care about being popular, she wanted to be good, and that was why what Rigsy said mattered. He was the best of them. He didn’t offer anything definitive there and then, instead he offered to share his lunch. As always, it was amazing. Clara may have questioned when she fitted sleep in, but she was certain that Rigsy was superhuman. How he fitted in working the hours he did at the restaurant she couldn’t begin to imagine, but she didn’t question quite how so much of the food made its way into Rigsy’s fridge, especially as it was often the only reason that she ate.

She tried not to think of her step mother with cold fury, she’d persuaded her dad, that if she was going to choose something as feckless as art, then she could support herself. Why couldn’t she be something sensible like her sister’s daughter and train to be a teacher? Art was all very well as a hobby, her auntie painted lovely pictures of cats, and why couldn’t she paint something nice? But it wasn’t a proper career was it? Clara was savagely stabbing her salad, causing Rigsy to roll his eyes and ask her what the salad was guilty of? She laughed, he was good at that, making her laugh. She’d worked for 3 years before even risking starting uni, hoping the money would somehow last, knowing there was no way it was enough. Her gran helped her, she hated that, taking money, but the ends weren’t meeting any more. She really must phone her, she’d do that tonight, before going out – find and empty office and use the phone. As they finished eating, Clara put Rigsy on the spot, demanding to know what the thought of what she’d done so far and what piece she should do. 

Rigsy was wise enough not to tease Clara, maybe later, she was his mate, and a laugh, but sometimes she was sooo serious. He never said it out loud but the words “control freak” did cross his mind, which he hastily amended to “perfectionist” – it wasn’t that she could read his mind, but he wasn’t about to risk a slap. He decided to go for it, telling her he’d noticed how into the model she was. He couldn’t believe the reaction – she actually blushed, Clara “Ice Queen” Oswald, actually blushed. He side tracked quickly and they argued the merits of her different plans. He still stored the info away, to bring up again at the pub, after a few drinks though.

The model returned again at the very last moment, mug still in hand, robe tightly closed. Two of the girls didn’t bother coming back (maybe her thoughts had been justified), that delayed the start as he refused to pose until everyone was there, something muttered about distraction and traipsing, in between expletives. Astonishingly, rather than telling him to "fucking just get on with it", the tutor placated him and they waited. When it was obvious the girls weren’t returning the man put his mug on the floor, dropped the robe and resumed his pose. Before settling himself, Clara got the full length view she had hoped for, and wasn’t disappointed. Very, very nice. She sighed, all the things she had ever said about objectifying someone rushed into her mind and she mentally chastised herself for being so shallow and focused on her work. Still...she jotted some thoughts and questions down onto post it notes, “objectification” was an interesting line of thought, she stuck them into her journal to work on later.

There really wasn’t enough time for a full length portrait, some of the others would manage it in the time, but not Clara. She outlined a sketch, hip upwards, arms, torso just suggested, but the focus, the detail, his head and hands, every shade, every nuance, as much as she could in the limited time. She kept her palette restricted, focusing on the blues, greens and purples she had selected earlier – she still couldn’t decide on his eyes. She wanted to walk right up to him and really look. And his hair – how had she paid no attention to it? It was quite extraordinary, a mass of unruly curls, a tight, dark steel grey at the nape of his neck, soft, silvery and fluffy on top. Fluffy was a ridiculous word for someone she found so compellingly masculine, she still made a note of it – contrasts and contradictions were good, tension was good, it created something or other. 

She focused utterly on the process of what she was doing, didn’t break when other’s did, not needing the model in front of her to work. She cursed however when the session reached its end, and others groaned similarly. She rolled her shoulders, easing the strain she felt, not really from physical effort, but the intensity. 

Astonishingly the tutor allowed them the unheard of luxury of taking pictures, the model shrugging as if it was no big deal. Paintings were one thing – the possibility of finding yourself on the internet, something else. Clara relied on Rigsy having taken images she could use, and then she decided that wasn’t enough and pestered him into taking the shots she wanted, the hands, the fingers, the head, the eyes. And just like that, the day was over. The model vanished, didn’t pause to look at what they had produced, just wrapped himself up and stalked out. 

After fixing the time they were going to meet up, Clara wandered until she found an empty, unlocked room with a phone with an outside line. She hoped no one checked the phone records too closely and connected calls to Blackpool to her. It was lovely talking to her gran, but it made her homesick for a home she didn’t have any longer. Her mum would have been fiercely proud of her, she’d have approved of what she was doing, supported her, encouraged her. Damn, she was not going to cry. She was just tired and worse, still hungry. She wondered if she could get Rigsy to feed her twice in a day? Fuck, she’d left her journal in the studio, she didn’t want anyone else going through her notes. The room should still be unlocked. Getting back she decided that she could skip the long hot shower she ‘d promised herself (the only good thing in her shared flat) and keep working whilst everything was fresh. Plus she had no idea how much time she could spend later in the week, art was going to have to be sacrificed for any opportunity for cold hard cash – she could not be late with the rent.

Turning on the minimum number of lights, Clara returned to her canvas, looked through her preparatory work, cursing she couldn’t look at Rigsy’s photos – she wondered what colour the models eyes had looked in the images. She stuffed headphones in her ears and focused on the shading of the skin of his left hand. Had he been wearing a ring? Yes, damn – although it added to the back story – she imagined something romantic, something with Paris. She had promised her mum she would travel, she still had her scrapbook of places she’d wanted to go, but college had eaten all her money – maybe she’d find a way to travel afterwards? She obsessively applied for every grant, bursary, prize, scholarship, whatever, even if she felt she didn’t stand a chance, she considered every application an exercise in creative writing, her CV a masterpiece of inventive fiction – the best she’d achieved so far was a corner of a shabby gallery and some free materials. Those were wonderful and she used them judiciously, they were far better than anything she could actually pay for. One of her flat mates worked only in found materials and she was beginning to think she had a point. Who was that guy that cast his head in his own blood? That might be all she could afford soon.

She screamed.

What the fucking fuck ?!?!?!

She whirled round. Someone had come in and turned on all the lights, she’d nearly had a heart attack. Bit early for the cleaner. She looked round, there he was, he looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He was speaking to her, she couldn’t hear him, she pulled the earphone out.

“Sorry I scared you. I thought everyone would be long gone. I just came back to have a look.” He gestured round the room and strode off towards Rigsy’s canvas. He studied what he’d produced intently. He didn’t say anything else and seemed to completely disregard Clara. 

Clara stood there, opening and closing her mouth – oh fuck, it was the model. She truly hadn’t recognised him with his clothes on (she chided herself for the appalling cliché). She allowed herself to stare again as his attention was so focused, damn it, what colour were his eyes. His hair was slicked back, dripping slightly, rain or a shower? Fuck, she didn’t have her coat, she was going to have to sprint to the pub. Then she realised that he’d stopped looking at Rigsy’s work and was staring at her gawping at him.

“I’m not posing now!”

Say something. 

“Is it raining?” She gestured weakly. 

“What?”

“Your hair, its wet, I didn’t bring my coat, I wondered if it was raining?" That was it Clara, babble.

He quirked an eyebrow.

“Shower, not rain. Do you mind if I keep looking?”

“That’s fine.” Really, what could she say?

She didn’t put her headphones back in, aware of the sounds of him softly moving around the space, the occasional tut, hiss or hum marking his progress. She could just about tell whose work he was near and what his opinion was. No one else’s work received as much attention as Rigsy’s. She re-found her focus and was lost in what she was doing until she realised that he was standing next to her, her journal in his hands.

“Hey! NO! Not that!”

At least he’d started from the front, or at least she hoped he had. She grabbed her journal from him, holding it tightly against her chest. He stared at her work without commenting, a slight twitch of his eyebrow the only indication that he’d heard her.

He turned towards her, his hand reached out, and his thumb swiped over her cheek.

“Paint!” He showed her the smear of colour.

That didn’t stop her shivering from his touch, this was bad, this was very bad. Staring intently into his eyes, she truly didn’t know what possessed her. She stood on her tiptoes, rested her hand on his shoulder and kissed him softly, leaning into him. His hand returned to tracing her cheek, the other on her hip. She felt him sigh, just the faintest ghost of breath against her mouth and then she felt the touch of his tongue against her lower lip.

To be continued....


	2. 1,2,3,4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, Clara is attacked in this chapter - just warning you - oh and quite a lot of bad language
> 
> We find out more about the Doctor
> 
> Pretty much hurt/comfort, just rather heavy on the "hurt"
> 
> Plenty of angst, some fluffy fluff.

No! No! No! No! Fucking no!

The words echoed in Clara’s head as her feet pounded the pavement. And it was fucking raining. At least no-one would notice she was crying – what a fucking disaster.

The kiss was everything she had hoped it would be. He felt amazing under her hands, his mouth tasted of coffee and whiskey.

Then it all went to shit. He was pushing her away, gently, but firmly and explaining. She didn’t understand, she wasn’t processing what he was saying. She was thinking about the ring – she thought he was going to tell her he was married – she braced herself for that, she could cope with that.

No, fucking, no, it was so much worse. She kept running. No destination, just getting away. Maybe the pub – did Rigsy know, he must have known? Oh fuck, how much worse could this get?

Not married, that would have been simple. No, he was a tutor, “the” fucking tutor, the legend, The Doctor! She had kissed a fucking tutor. What the hell had he been doing modelling for them? No wonder their tutor deferred to him. Did everyone else know, was that why there was the buzz? He was a legend – no-one in their year ever got to see him. He only took final year students, if that, only if they were good enough. Rumoured to live abroad for most of the year, or a monastery, or with the Dalai Lama, or probably all three. And she had fucking kissed him. He had been so polite. She might have just coped if he’d shouted at her, ranted at her, but he’d been gracious, polite, understanding. She felt like she was a kid again, all the worst, most embarrassing moments, all rolled into one. She had fucking kissed him.

Her anger, her embarrassment were leaching away as the freezing, driving rain soaked her. She had no idea where she was. She stopped, looked round, sheltering in a shop doorway. She didn’t recognise the street.

She had her journal. Somehow, shoving it into her bag before she ran. She had no idea how many things she’d knocked over on her way out. Fuck. He’d tried to put a hand on her arm, asked her to stop, she ran. She wasn’t sure she could go back.

Maybe he wouldn’t tell anyone. Maybe he’d allow it to slide as just one of those things. No, he’d talk to her tutors, she’d be in front of the guidance counsellor at best. There would be a note on her file. Everyone would know. She would spend the rest of her time as a student as a laughing stock. The girl who kissed the Doctor. A desperate, pathetic, wannabe. No-one would ever take anything she ever did seriously again. All her work, everything this had cost, all wasted.

Fucking get a fucking grip. This wasn’t a pity party. It wasn’t that bad, she wasn’t going to let it be that bad. This had cost too much, one kiss, one tutor, wasn’t going to end it.

He had won the Turner prize. There had been a retrospective at the Tate Modern.

Thoughts like that weren’t helpful. She’d talk to Rigsy. She’d talk to her tutor – hopefully before the Doctor had chance to say anything – she’d get in early. She would sort it. And if she was very lucky, she would never see the Doctor again.

She stepped out from the door and a hand closed over her bag strap, yanking her off her feet. She yelped as she slammed into the cold, wet, paving slabs. She wouldn’t let go of her bag – idiot. Give the fucker what he wanted, let him have her bag – there was no money, no phone, nothing worth him mugging her for. 

Damn, he looked in the bag before he ran off. He threw her bag away in disgust.

“Where is it? Where’s your money? “

“I don’t have any money.”

“Don’t lie, you fucking cunt, give it to me!”

Moving towards her, he grabbed her hair, twisting his hand in it, wrenching her upright. His face inches from her, his spittle landing on her as he screamed at her to hand over money she didn’t have. 

He fumbled in his pocked, pulled out a knife, held it against her throat and then she heard the other words he was saying. If she didn’t have the money, he’d take something else, something sweeter. And he was dragging her into an alley. Why hadn’t she fought sooner, screamed louder, been more careful, paid attention to where she was? As if any of this was her fault. And none of that was helping, she was going to be sick, she twisted in the man’s grasp as the contents of her stomach fought their way up her throat, spraying out of her mouth over her attacker’s chest. He released her hair, punched her, called her a filthy, fucking cow and he wouldn’t have hurt her, but he was going to now, and he was going to fucking enjoy it. 

She was scrabbling backwards, anything to get away from him, her hands desperately searching for anything to defend herself. Somehow she was on the street and she gathered her legs under her, preparing to run. Not a chance, he was on her, he kicked her, his hands closing on her, dragging her back. Finally she drew breath into her lungs and screamed, she kicked, she twisted, she clawed, she flailed, she didn’t think about the knife. She didn’t have the ghost of a chance, he was a good foot taller and at least 10 stone heavier. He flung her against the wall of the dark, foetid space – her head cracked against the brickwork and she sprawled helpless and dazed. 

The worst nightmares are where you hear and see everything, the detail, pin sharp, but this was worse, this was real. Watching him walk towards her, his hand on his belt, his hand on his zip. And she couldn’t face it anymore. She couldn’t watch her own destruction. She closed her eyes and willed herself somewhere far away, holed herself up inside her head, bargaining with deities she didn’t believe in , to just let her live, if only she could live, nothing else mattered. She couldn’t, but she would, deal with anything else. 

Just let it be over, just let her live, let her live, let her live, let her live, let her live.

Ever since she was a very little girl she had counted in her head. When she was scared, when circumstances threatened to overwhelm her, when her mum died, she counted. She counted in 4s. 

........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.

.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

She didn’t know how many multiples of 4 she’d reached before she opened her eyes, her arms wrapped over her head, trying to shield herself, hold herself together, protect what she could.

She couldn’t work out what was happening. Dazed and confused, still sick, at first she thought her attacker was beating up someone else. Sound came back first, the sound of a fist against flesh. Screaming. Putting her hand to her mouth she realised that it was her. She pulled herself upright, everything swam round her, this was her chance, she had to get away. She staggered and almost fell, she was sick, again. She should run, but she turned and looked.

No, this wasn’t possible. The Doctor had her attacker on the ground and was beating him. He was saying something and she still couldn’t make sounds into words. She didn’t care how he was here, where he had come from, she had never been so thankful to see anyone. 

Phone the police – his words finally entering her head. Holding the man down, his knee on his chest, he handed her his phone. She looked at it blankly, trying to remember how you made a call.

The rest of the night existed as fragments, the blue lights, the blanket round her shoulders, A&E, probable concussion, refusing to stay after they’d checked her over – lying and saying she had someone to take care of her, to watch over her. She hated hospitals, everything about them. The memories of her mother, the smells, the machines. No matter what they did, she still died. The statement, the questions, did she want to press charges? Yes, she wanted to press fucking charges.

Her attacker proclaiming his innocence, saying they were a couple, they’d had a falling out, you know how it is? The daft cow had slipped and hit her head, and then this great fucker had fucking jumped him. He was the fucking victim here. He had a lawyer faster than Clara could blink.

The one constant, her rock in this, the still point in the whole maelstrom, the thing she couldn’t quite believe, through the terror, the fury, the anger, the shaking that she just couldn’t get to stop, the Doctor stayed. He didn’t leave her side, he didn’t leave her alone, he backed everything she said, he defended her and he astonished her by keeping a protective arm wrapped round her, holding her up when she would have slipped into oblivion. Somehow finding her warm, clean, dry clothes, a decent mug of tea. 

Refusing to listen to her when she insisted on going back to her flat – taking her with him when there was simply no-one she could think of for him to phone for her. He ran her a bath, and found her more, clean, dry, warm clothes. He turned on every light when she started screaming again, and couldn’t stop. He held her when she sobbed, and kept telling her she was safe. She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, but it was definitely daylight. Light enough that she felt safe closing her eyes, light enough that there was nothing that could get her. Still she clawed and fought her way awake when something closed in on her in her dreams. And she was hitting him, and he didn’t stop her blows, just telling her over and over she was safe. When she wept again, he placed a gentle hand on her hair, carefully stroking, cautious, making sure not to cause her pain, keeping talking, until she slept again.

Bright sunshine was streaming through the windows when she properly woke. She felt safe, she felt warm, then, she remembered and moved. The wave of pain she felt, staggered her. She didn’t remember where she was – but she did remember what happened – mostly. Someone had helped her. Rigsy? She was wrapped in a warm, soft, old quilt, her nose pressed against someone’s chest. They smelled nice, a citrusy cologne, hints of turps and coffee. She was reluctant to move again – there were consequences to moving, and she felt safe and nothing hurt if she didn’t move. She closed her eyes again and counted the heart beats and breaths of the man she was lying against. She smiled as he softly snored. She fell asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your input is very, very welcome
> 
> Loved this, tell me, hated this, tell me, really loved this - please share.
> 
> Still taking drabble prompts too


	3. Arguing with yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is from the Doctor's point of view. I realised I already have so many notes for this, it is going to be much longer than expected (but, happily, the ending is already written). Sorry if the first couple of paragraphs are a little clunky.
> 
> So, we get considerable more of the Doctor's back story, he is a little, er, broken, so his thoughts do jump backwards and forwards a bit
> 
> There is smut...
> 
> Subsequent chapters will feature more turmoil for both of them, and more smut....

He woke up, she was nestled against him, his nose almost in her hair, one arm still wrapped round her. 

This was bad, so bad. 

He’d kissed a student. Not “his” student, but still, that was just semantics, and, ok, strictly speaking she had kissed him, but, still, fuck! 

He’d wanted her to kiss him, feeling her eyes on him all day. Knowing the way she was looking at him. Not quite in his direct eye line, the only thing that saved him, aware of the constancy of her heated gaze, feeling like he was a teenager, trying not to get hard. What had possessed him to agree to fucking pose nude for a bunch of kids?

Rigsy.

He wanted to see if he was as good as he’d heard, as good as the bits and pieces, glimpses that he’d seen already. And fuck him, he was. With the hubris of age, he looked at what Rigsy had produced and saw himself as a young man, burning with ideas. It was so long since he had allowed himself to feel excited. The university still treated him and feted him as a great sacred cow, but he knew what he was, an old, moth eaten, toothless lion. He was embarrassed for himself.

Here he was with a beautiful, young woman in his arms, something that could and should be a source of joy (however fleeting), but it just brought him shame. He’d stood behind her, watching her work, the intensity, the sunlight in her hair, the play of muscles under her shirt as she moved, the curves of her hips and her breasts, and he was in so much fucking trouble.

He tried to shift a little in the chair, not wanting to wake her, but not wanting the awkwardness either of explaining his cock pressing against her. That became all he could think of, losing himself in her. He used his free hand to desperately adjust himself, and try to relive any of the insistent aching pressure. For fuck’s sake, don’t let her wake and see him with his hand on his cock.

He tried not to replay the day before in his head, but there it was in a Technicolor loop. How long had it been since he had someone, anyone in his arms? Too long. Far, far too long. He discounted every casual fuck, the point when biology, circumstances and need ambushed him – those didn’t count, they weren’t meaningless – but they were empty. They didn’t mean breakfast with un-brushed hair, they didn’t mean late night conversations when you both refused to hang up the phone, they didn’t mean leaving little notes that only the two of you understood, shared jokes that only you found funny, tenderness. All the things that weren’t just a pointless explosion of lust.

He was reading too much into this already, he was investing too much, he was thinking too much and he was still fucking hard.

She moved, curling more securely into him, one hand under his t-shirt, her fingers feeling incandescent against him. And fuck it, his hand hurt. He looked at his arm resting against her, two fingers taped, already exquisite shades of purple and blue. Brilliant, an artist with a broken hand, not that he was working on anything, he hadn’t worked on anything in an eternity, everything seemed to be behind him, a gaping black maw, threatening to suck him under. Don’t go there, how well he knew that, that way madness lay. 

His fingers throbbed. He couldn’t take anything, the humiliation of turning down the meds they’d offered him last night, this morning, whenever. He wanted something, anything to take the edge off, he could feel the need itching along his nerves, the desire to peel his skin back and expose the rawness inside. 

He couldn’t. 

How long had he been clean? He knew the answer down to seconds, since his last relapse, the last time he couldn’t take everything anymore, the last time he’d gone under, thinking this was it, he wouldn’t rise again. How long had it been since his last meeting though, when had he last talked to his sponsor? The craving never went and nothing was a substitute, but oh, he could so easily crave her.

How long had it been since his wife left? That was lost in the disjointed nightmares, newspaper clippings, unauthorised biographies, tv documentaries and desperate deals for just one more fix. How many times had he promised her he would get clean, that this was it. And he didn’t, until it was too late and she’d gone and his little girl with her. No pictures, no letters, not contact. Which was what he fucking deserved. With them his inspiration went too, oh he worked. He was the reviews in his head, “powerful, raw, explosive, transcendent” – what a load of total, fucking wank. It may well be fucking brilliant, but he didn’t love it anymore, hadn’t loved anything since they’d gone, and it was what he deserved. The final words “you could have hurt her” the splinter of ice in his heart, the knife twisting in his brain. He didn’t he couldn’t he wouldn’t have let anything happen to his little girl, she was the most precious thing in the world. Except that was a lie, the drugs were more, they were everything, he left the gas on, glasses full of everything out, pills on the table, needles on the floor and it was a miracle she hadn’t been hurt. That was it, that was when everything was too much and nothing he could offer could offset it. His promises empty too often and they were gone. The pain of their loss, the grief for people still living, left him breathless and it was all his own fucking fault.

He hadn’t told her he was poison. His patina of self respect wouldn’t let him do that. He’d been polite, he’d told her who he was. He’d been as gentle as he knew how. All he’d wanted to do was keep kissing her. The feel of her lips on his, the smell of her, her hand on his chest. The feel of her hand now against the hollow of his back and he wanted her so badly. NO, he had a duty of care. He was in a position of authority, responsibility. Fuck, she was probably the same age as his daughter – oh god, was that what he was now, a fucking pervert? He would not be some sad, old git chasing the chance of reliving his youth by taking up with someone who flattered and soothed his ego. Ok, she probably wasn’t like that, not that sort of woman.

He really thought he’d been polite, but the way she’d taken off after he’d spoken, it was as if he had scalded her. He took time to straighten out the chaos of canvasses she had left in her wake, took his time to lock up. He dithered. Finally deciding he should have a scout around, attempt to see if she was all right, that she’d made it home safely. As he drove round, he realised he had no idea where she might have gone. Ok, deductive reasoning. Hypothesis – student, conclusion – broke. Therefore, destination the shit, rat infested, damp, death traps that landlords fondly described as student accommodation, but they really called cash machines. Turning the car round he headed in the most likely direction.

As he’d driven, his mind had replayed other parts of the day. He still wasn’t sure whether he should feel ashamed or not. Thoughts of her had clouded his mind with lust. Alternating poses in the astonishingly cold studio there was little else to do but day dream (he had somehow forgotten the excruciating tedium of modelling – another memory consigned to the haze of drugs.) And he had dreamed, her small, nimble fingers, strong and skilled, her mouth, hot and eager, and then he had come to his senses. He was naked in front of a room full of students, he wasn’t about to take full frontal to its zenith (he shook his head at that memory). He had contemplated taxes, his odious, but necessary accountant and the simple ludicrousness of the gas bill. All those should serve to throw cold water over his libido. He was mostly convinced that no one noticed anything, not that there had really been anything to notice and thankfully, no-one could see inside his head.

He’d lasted ‘til lunch. He threw on sufficient clothes to make it to the sanctum of his office. An hour of stultifying responses to emails should anaesthetise his soul for the rest of the day. He’d poured his umpteenth coffee of the day, the one addiction he could allow and once again missed smoking, the ritual, the drag of smoke into his lungs. OK, he didn’t miss the hacking cough, the smell, the atrocious cost, or the stained fingers, but as with everything he’d given up, all that was gone, he missed it. He made it through 10 minutes of crap before his mind began to wander – there was nothing in the inbox that could be counted as engaging – this museum, that gallery wanted to borrow a piece of his work, could he speak at, would he present at, could he write about, would he lend his support to? He really did try to ignore the insistent, persistent arousal, the heat pooling in his groin, he wasn’t fucking 12. 

He started on the pile of actual mail, enjoying for a moment the slide of his paper knife through each envelope, the way the paper parted, the rip, the hiss, the tear. If only the contents of the envelopes was quite as captivating. By the eighth invitation to someone he didn’t remember or had never heard of gallery’s opening, he was aware that his hand and drifted and his focus and attention had entirely shifted. He’d forgone underwear, the lines on flesh utterly unbecoming and no, he wasn’t vain, it was simply a matter of aesthetics. His cock was pressed uncomfortably against the zip of his trousers, his wandering thoughts causing alternately pleasurable and distinctly discomfiting twitches. He gave in, slumping back in his chair, legs splayed, hand on his zip. His eyes flicked to the door of his office, he’d locked it, right? He stood up and with difficulty walked across and checked – he wasn’t about to tempt fate. Some things you could probably never live down. The thought of the past head lines dampened his ardour for the moment, wanking in his office was way, way down the list of his misdemeanours. Sitting down again, he hesitated, really was this what he was? A lonely old man who sat in his office, playing with himself, thinking about students? His cock wasn’t listening to that part of his brain. He found himself inexorably drawn back to images of her, the depth of her huge brown eyes, the fierceness and softness, the concentration. How her lips parted and she stuck her tongue out as she focused. How she bit and chewed her bottom lip. The barest hint of cleavage, the top anything but revealing, the swell of her breasts still evident, he imagined their softness and fullness in his hands, the nipples that were hard and evident in the cold air, in his mouth, being teased by his tongue. Had she been wearing a bra? 

And he was lost. 

He wasn’t aware of when he’d freed himself from the constricting confines of his clothing, but he found his hand sliding against himself, the simple kick of focusing on a few seconds release, whiting out everything with bliss. He could allow himself this, it didn’t mean anything? He kept telling himself that. His mind fell back into the fantasies. The way she looked at him, already stripped of his clothes, he could feel her looking into him. Would she like him if she knew everything, a tenth of everything? He knew the mythology that surrounded him, something he did everything to discourage. His hermit like existence, his only solution to temptation. Friends, parties, all, everything only led back to one thing. Glancing at the clock to make sure he really had time for this (was he really so old, he worried about how long he might take to come?) Fucking shut up, and he wasn’t certain which part of his brain he was talking to, and how healthy was it that most of his conversations were with himself?

In spite of his fractured thoughts, arousal dripped from him, his palm slick, his hand rubbing lazily up and down, not quite focused, not quite finding a rhythm. His trousers pushed down his thighs, the chair surprisingly cold against his arse, his shiver was not from pleasure. How many times had heating been raised at department meetings? Her skirt, gloriously short, thick, opaque tights, but the outline of her legs – perfect, slight, toned. Oh, but her curves were marvellous – in his mind he undressed her slowly, lavishing kisses on each freshly exposed part of creamy soft skin – his mouth lingering, pausing to mark her, to nuzzle, to lick. He was aware of the sounds he was making, the hisses and gasps of his breath, and he didn’t care. He touched himself and imagined it was her, her surrounding him, her riding him, her with her legs wrapped round him, pulling him into her, urging him on. Closer. Faster. Harder. Her nails scoring against his skin. The sounds he would make her make, her gasp when he made her come. There, that, and he was coming hot and hard into a handful of redundant paperwork. The tension in his thighs, throughout his body, uncoiling into glorious, warm, drowsy bonelessness. 

For a few perfect heartbeats, it was as good as anything. Then the reality, whatever brief satisfaction, he was alone with himself. He cleaned up at the sink, binned all the mail on his desk, deleted emails, poured more coffee – walked back to the studio, continuing to argue in his head.

He wasn’t sure how long he drove. Lost in reflection, he’d always had a poor grasp of time. He saw a girl on the pavement, he saw a man. He didn’t know it was her, he did know what he was seeing wasn’t right. 

He wasn’t heroic, he was never that. Frail, vain, silly, selfish, all those were appropriate labels, but he hoped he was capable of conquering his own inherent weakness when it really mattered.

Surely he’d learned that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are liking this as much as me. Went to read some stories that I hoped might have updated and felt slightly forlorn when they hadn't - therefore, I realised I should really update mine.
> 
> As always, if you hated this - tell me.
> 
> If you loved this - please tell me.
> 
> If you really loved this - please share.
> 
> Thank you, each and everyone of you.

**Author's Note:**

> Love Rigsy - so hope you like him in this story too
> 
> I ask forgiveness of all artists - I am not one
> 
> As usual, if you hated this, tell me, if you loved this, tell me, if you really loved this - please share.
> 
> I love everyone who reads and comments - thank you. You all make my heart glad.


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